


A Marriage Based on Love

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Crests (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), F/M, Faerghus Politics, Love, M/M, Marriage, Mentions of Annette/Felix, Minor Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Romance, Self-Doubt, Sylvgrid Week (Fire Emblem), Sylvgrid Week 2020, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: When Sylvain wakes, he is alone. And while it isn’t so uncommon an occurrence as most of the world believes it to be, it isn’t supposed to happen today, on his first day as a husband.Or;While searching for Ingrid the morning after their wedding, Sylvain reflects on the past and how he got here.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 67
Collections: Sylvgrid week 2020





	A Marriage Based on Love

**Author's Note:**

> Day 4: Bittersweet

When Sylvain wakes, he is alone.

And while it isn’t so uncommon an occurrence as most of the world believes it to be, it isn’t supposed to happen today, on his first day as a husband.

“Ingrid?” he calls, sitting up.

The room is as empty as his bed. There are signs of Ingrid: her dancing slippers, at the foot of the chair she collapsed into after they escaped the party. A crown of flowers on the dressing table. Most conspicuously, her dress, made of the finest silk velvet money can buy, in a shade of green that matches Ingrid’s eyes. It hangs over that same chair, where it was discarded in the midst of passion.

Sylvain was the one to insist on the new gown. Ingrid, so used to scrimping and saving wherever she could, had called it an extravagance.

“Let’s be honest, pretty things are wasted on me,” she said, still arguing even while the seamstress performed the final fitting. “All over Galatea, grain stores have rotting walls and sunken floors. The price of this dress would build at least three new ones, maybe more.”

Sylvain walked up behind Ingrid and laid his hands on her shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror in front of them.

“You don’t need to worry about things like that anymore,” he said. “It’s over. I’ll devote as many funds as necessary to rebuild Galatea. But my bride will have the best of everything. That’s not negotiable.”

Then the seamstress asked a question, stealing Ingrid’s opportunity to respond. She never raised the topic again.

And Sylvain wonders, again, whether he made a mistake. The words were an honest expression of his feelings (a concept he is slowly coming to terms with), but that didn’t necessarily mean it was right to say them. He knows Ingrid is proud. Was she embarrassed by the reminder of how little her house brought to the marriage?

No. Sylvain dismisses the thought as quickly as it arises, though its sour taste lingers. He won’t think like his father. Ingrid and Sylvain’s marriage isn’t like that. It’s not the arranged sort, where both parties meet at a long table in a dark room and exchange ledgers and property deeds, bragging about the number of Crests in their family tree and assuring their future in-laws that the grandchildren will inherit them.

Their marriage is one of love.

Sylvain gets out of bed and crosses to the large wardrobe opposite. It is a heavy, dark wood monstrosity, its handles forming the Gautier coat-of-arms in the centre. Sylvain despises it.

But today, when he opens it, he is overcome by a feeling of satisfaction. At some point during the wedding celebration, the servants swept through his bedroom, transforming it from a bachelor’s refuge into a bridal suite. Now, hanging beside his assortment of regularly-worn clothing, is a collection of Ingrid’s.

It is one of those things, like the ring on his finger and the intertwining initials of his new seal, that quietly attest to the fact that Sylvain is now half of a whole.

In awe of his situation, Sylvain runs a finger along the garments hanging on Ingrid’s side. They are all eminently practical: tunics and leggings, only a few dresses. He has known for years that she prefers lighter colours, pale aqua and purple, some pink; but seeing them all together overwhelms him with her presence, even in her absence. Only her training clothes are dark blue and grey.

Sylvain frowns. The tunic and leggings Ingrid wears while exercising are in the wardrobe. His first guess as to her whereabouts was the training grounds. He thinks it an unequivocally Ingrid-thing to do, to exercise the morning after her wedding.

But if she isn’t at the grounds, where is she?

Sylvain looks around the room again, searching for clues. None jump out at him. In fact, the room feels oddly unfamiliar after the servant’s sweep-through. He doesn’t know if anything is out of place.

He could send for a servant; surely someone saw Ingrid leave. Growing up in a castle like this, one quickly learns that no action, no behaviour, no word goes unnoticed. But it feels wrong to do that. Like he is betraying Ingrid. Sylvain will not start his married life by spying on his wife. He trusts her, more than he trusts himself.

The only option is to search the castle. Sylvain draws his robe from the wardrobe and shrugs it over his nightclothes. He shoves his feet into his slippers and heads towards the door, tying the belt. Halfway there, he stops. He turns back to check his appearance in the dressing table mirror.

“Goddess,” Sylvain swears, pushing his hair back from his forehead. He looks exhausted, the bags under his eyes nearly as prominent as they were during the war. Although really, what did he expect? Hosting the entire Faerghus nobility, with a few extras from the former Empire and Alliance thrown in, is no small feat, even without getting married in the midst of it.

Shrugging, accepting that there is little he can do about it, and that people will care even less, Sylvain leaves the room.

In the hallway, the white stone floor sparkles under the sunlight pouring through the windows. The family rooms are in the east wing, an allusion to the old Gautier adage of rising early to conquer the day. One that Sylvain has never adhered to within the castle walls. This place—home—is his refuge from the troubles of the world, from the Sreng and war. The only place where sleeping in does not equal the possibility of a last day lived.

But because of the adage and the hour, the castle feels eerie. Even more striking when Sylvain compares the stillness with the previous day’s noise. Not that the castle is empty: on the contrary, every bedroom and suite is occupied. There is His Majesty, of course, in the southern tower. Count Galatea and his children occupy rooms in the family wing, a symbol of their new relationship to House Gautier. Felix, in his usual bedroom, and Byleth, in Ingrid’s old one, share the west wing with Count Charon, Count Rowe, and Viscount Kleiman. And in the north accommodations, the Hero of Daphnel, Duke Goneril, Margrave Edmund, and Count Hevring.

But the guests will all be asleep now, or at least resting quietly in their rooms. Judging by the occasional shouts and thumps, the celebration continued long after Sylvain and Ingrid retired.

Sylvain tiptoes past his parents’ room in case his father is part of the second group. He doesn’t fancy an encounter with the Margrave. The wedding day was enough; Sylvain dreads to think what questions his father will ask this morning.

The Margrave is the reason there are so many guests. His triumph is no triumph unless everyone witnesses it. Sylvain, caught up in the happiness that came with Ingrid’s acceptance of his proposal, was willing to indulge his father’s glee. Until he overheard the Margrave’s conversation with Kleiman.

It was an hour before the marriage ceremony, but Sylvain was ready. And a mess of nerves, unable to keep still. Deciding it was better to expend his energy downstairs with the guests rather than alone, he shrugged on his wedding coat and left his room as a single man for the last time.

Walking down the hall, Sylvain pondered the pleasant thought that the next time he passed through it, he would be leading Ingrid to their marriage bed. Then he noticed the door of his father’s office was ajar. Sylvain stopped, debating whether to knock and ask his father to join him. Before he could decide, he heard voices.

“Well, no doubt Galatea is toasting his own good luck.”

It was Viscount Kleiman. Sylvain wasn’t fond of the man, but he was good friends with the Margrave.

“You know what he was like before the war,” Kleiman continued. “Even during it, he never stopped receiving proposals for that girl.”

Sylvain leaned his shoulder against the wall, almost holding his breath in his fear of discovery.

“Luck is the right term,” came the Margrave’s voice. “The man is ambitious, but he would never have succeeded on his own account. He’s too soft. You know why he didn’t have the terms of that marriage contract changed, so that Ingrid and Felix married instead? He told me. It was because Ingrid said she loved Glenn. Imagine abandoning a betrothal with House Fraldarius because a child claims she’s in love.”

Kleiman laughed.

“It’s inconceivable,” he said. “If I’d had a daughter, I would have sought an alliance with Fraldarius myself when the contract broke.”

“I doubt Rodrigue would have heard you out. He was a good man, a great friend, but also too lenient with his children. Especially after Glenn died. It spoiled Felix.”

“I hardly think you can criticise a man for doting on his child.”

“Guilty as charged, but there is an important difference between myself and Rodrigue. I taught Sylvain to respect his parents, his house, his heritage. I have complete confidence that had I arranged a match for him, Sylvain would not have made a single complaint.”

“Well, you’re fortunate you don’t have to test that,” Kleiman said.

“I’ve never once felt the need to test Sylvain’s loyalty. He may rebel in small, silly ways, but he always bends to the family’s desires. For goddess’s sake, he’s presented me with a Crest-bearing daughter-in-law! My grandchildren are guaranteed one, Kleiman.”

Sylvain felt sick. He pushed himself away from the wall and hurried downstairs. There, he was greeted with cheers and congratulations, even from Felix, but it was all just noise. Just like those women who saw him as a studhorse, his father saw Ingrid as a breeding mare. And that infuriated him.

“Here comes the bride!”

Annette’s yell rang out over the entrance hall. Sylvain caught a glimpse of Felix’s smile as the mage ran down the stairs, nearly tripping over her gown, but was distracted from them both when Ingrid appeared.

Sylvain had been denied a glimpse of the final dress. Now he understood why. They had been saving it for this moment, when he looked up and saw his future descending towards him.

And it was breathtaking. Ingrid descended the stairs so tentatively, so fearfully, even though she was greeted with shouts and applause. She was unaware of her own beauty. Her hair, framing her face in golden curls, was held from her green eyes by a crown of white carnations for good luck and pure love. Her gown, its richness emphasising the perfect, pale skin of her neck, was otherwise modest, with long sleeves and a conservative neckline. Yet its shape traced her perfect figure, making him long for the night ahead.

Ingrid cast her eyes around the room, chewing at her lower lip. Sylvain knew she was looking for him, and stepped forward. Immediately, her worried frown transformed to a smile, before a blush rose in her cheeks and she glanced down at her feet. Sylvain’s chest was full enough to burst, with pride, love, joy. He was the luckiest man alive.

As Ingrid came down the last few steps, she reached for Sylvain. He took her hand and pulled her in for a kiss. The crowd roared.

Screw father, Sylvain thought as he drew back to look at his bride. Their marriage will be based on love.

Sylvain stops at the top of the stairs and looks down at the entrance hall. He imagines what it was like for Ingrid to stand up here, exposed to all those people. She isn’t like Sylvain—she doesn’t thrive on attention. Ingrid wants to fade into the background, to not be singled out. As Sylvain watches the servants below clear the chairs and wedding decorations, he regrets allowing his father to force her to become a spectacle, a trophy to show off to his friends and enemies alike.

In comparison to the upper levels, the first floor of the castle is a flurry of activity. The Margrave gave the servants permission to rise late, but not a day off; they won’t get to rest until the last guest is gone. Which will be in a week, when the king returns to Fhirdiad.

Predictably, Dimitri had seized Sylvain and Ingrid’s wedding as an opportunity to pursue discussion with the attending nobles. A wedding was a more relaxed occasion, he said, a chance to forge meaningful bonds with the people whose minds he was attempting to change. So he decided to stay for an extra week, essentially forcing himself on the Margrave’s hospitality, along with a dozen other men and women.

Sylvain’s father agreed to the plan. So did Ingrid, ever devoted Ingrid.

Sylvain told Dimitri to get stuffed. Felix backed him up, asking Dimitri how he would feel if he, as a newly-wed, was forced to entertain a bag of nobles. Dimitri raised his eyebrows and said, but of course, he had never thought his first week as a married man would be any different—if he was ever fortunate enough to wed.

“But I am aware that I am asking an immense favour of you,” Dimitri said, turning his single eye on Sylvain. “I will not require you to do this. If it is what you want, I’ll depart the day after the wedding and take all the nobles with me.”

And Sylvain caved, because it was Dimitri. The aim of everything they had done was to help him take the throne, and convince Fódlan’s nobility there was a better way than Crests and oppression. What room was there to refuse?

“Good morning, Lord Gautier,” says a maid, bobbing as Sylvain passes her. He offers her a smile.

“Have you seen Lady Gautier?” he asks.

When the maid smirks affectionately, he wonders why. Perhaps a hint of happiness escaped his usually flawless mask, since calling Ingrid by her newest moniker causes happiness to bubble up through his chest.

“I have not, my lord. Do you have a message, if I see her?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll find her soon enough.”

The chapel, the place where Sylvain and Ingrid said their vows with the archbishop himself as witness, is unoccupied. The servants do not take care of this room; instead, a monk who lives in the castle town comes every day and tends it. The fresh altar candles suggest that he has completed his work. He probably came early, spurred by Byleth’s presence.

Thinking of Byleth, Sylvain reflects that perhaps Dimitri’s transformation into a married man truly isn’t to be. The previous day exists in his mind as a spinning blur of impressions, but a few moments, like Ingrid descending the stairs and exchanging vows, are clear amongst the jumble. The only one of these that does not concern Ingrid is of Dimitri and Byleth.

Between the last two courses of the wedding banquet, Felix slid up to Sylvain’s side.

“Your father gave some of his rum to Byleth,” he said.

Sylvain whispered an apology in Ingrid’s ear and let go of her arm. She looked at him questioningly, and he shook his head, he would explain later.

Felix led Sylvain to the far corner of the room. His father and Byleth were seated there. They both held a glass, and a decanter of the Margrave’s famous rum sat on the table between them. Byleth was laughing.

Sylvain snatched the decanter and glared at his father.

“Father, you cannot give this to the archbishop,” he said.

The Margrave looked up at Sylvain. His face was relatively clear; he had developed something of a tolerance to the horrendously strong alcohol after so many years of drinking it.

“Why not? The archbishop is enjoying it,” the Margrave said, gesturing to Byleth.

Byleth laughed again and lifted his glass.

“To the bridegroom!” he exclaimed.

Felix snorted and covered his mouth. Sylvain turned his glare on him.

“Make yourself useful and get Annette,” he said. “She might be able to do something about this.”

Felix left, now clearly laughing behind his hand. Sylvain abandoned the decanter and extracted the glass from Byleth’s hand, thinking it would have a greater effect.

“By, this is basically pure alcohol,” he said.

“It’s good,” Byleth said. “There’s nothing like this at the monastery. Maybe you could send a bottle or two?”

He looked at the Margrave with a raised eyebrow. His face was more relaxed than Sylvain had ever seen, open and expressive. Goddess, his father had gotten the archbishop drunk.

“Of course,” the Margrave replied, waving a hand through the air.

“You will not,” Sylvain said. “Dad, most of the monks there have taken vows of sobriety.”

“Well the archbishop clearly hasn’t.”

“Maybe he should,” Sylvain retorted.

Byleth stood up and slapped his hands on Sylvain’s shoulders.

“Why are you so serious? Today, of all days?” he said. “It’s your wedding! Lighten up! Don’t be a stick in the mud. Like Felix. He’s twisted so tight that if you pulled his arm, he’d pirouette as he unwound.”

The Margrave guffawed. Sylvain stared at Byleth, too shocked to do anything useful.

“That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said,” he pronounced.

“It’s true,” Byleth said, tapping the side of his nose.

“What’s wrong?” came Annette’s voice.

Sylvain turned his head to see her rushing towards them, Felix and Dimitri close behind.

“Mitya!” Byleth cried.

Dimitri stopped dead, all colour fleeing from his face. Byleth shoved Sylvain away and ambled towards his lover, pulling his coat off and dropping it on the floor as he did. Then the archbishop of the Church of Seiros, an entity that had imposed standards of propriety and decorum on the Holy Kingdom for over 400 years, grabbed the face of Faerghus’s king and kissed him full on the lips.

Sylvain wanted to cheer, because hooray for them. After a year of hiding their relationship for the sake of Faerghus, Byleth had announced it to the nobility with one drunken act. They could stop the covert trips up and down the highway between Fhirdiad and Garreg Mach, made once or twice a month for the simple pleasure of spending an hour or two in each other’s company. A pleasure other couples demanded as their right. The secrecy was ridiculous anyway, because Sylvain was certain the people would celebrate the love between the two saviours of Fódlan, gladly follow them as a united force.

But the Margrave’s expression silenced Sylvain’s shout.

Dimitri pushed Byleth away. His anguish showed on his face, mixed with embarrassment and shame. Dimitri had never learned, like Sylvain and Felix, to hide his emotions behind a façade. And now, Sylvain realised as he looked around the room, the entire nobility of Faerghus was staring at their king, with looks of horror or disapproval, reading that open book.

“Your Grace,” Dimitri said, his voice trembling, “you’re drunk.”

Sylvain saw Ingrid break through the circle of onlookers. She looked from Dimitri to Byleth, then to Sylvain, her eyes asking a thousand questions.

“Mitya,” Byleth said, stepping towards him, reaching out a hand again. “I need to tell you something. I don’t like being apart …”

Dimitri threw himself forward and clapped his hand over Byleth’s mouth. Sylvain could see the tears in his eye. He prayed that the Margrave hadn’t noticed.

“Your Grace,” Dimitri repeated. “I think you should retire to bed.”

Byleth moved Dimitri’s hand away. Dimitri didn’t resist—well, Sylvain thought, he had always been hopelessly weak around the people he loved.

“Come with me,” Byleth said, his voice full of longing.

A shocked laugh echoed through the hall. Sylvain could not determine its source, but it didn’t matter. Dimitri flushed bright red. He shuffled backwards, averting his eyes to the floor.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dimitri said.

There was complete silence. It was as though no one in the hall was even breathing. Within that oppressive calm, Sylvain watched Byleth crumble. It wasn’t a physical thing: he remained upright and sure, despite the alcohol. But his face revealed the depth of his pain, the fact that, without a doubt, Dimitri had just broken his heart.

Byleth turned away from Dimitri, eyes casting about. They stopped on Sylvain. Byleth stepped up to him, lifted a hand to his shoulder once more.

“Congratulations, again,” he said. “I’m…I’m going to go to bed.”

“Do you need help?” Sylvain asked. Loud enough for everyone to hear. To let them know that he would never judge or abandon his friends, no matter what they did.

Byleth shook his head.

“I, ah, I’ve embarrassed Dimitri,” he said. “I don’t…I…I’ll go alone.”

Beyond Byleth, Dimitri closed his eye. And the only sound in the hall was the dragging of Byleth’s boots as he left.

The moment it faded, Dimitri spun on his heel and strode out the double doors that formed the room’s main entrance. The crowd dispersed, returning to the tables or forming smaller circles in order to gossip.

Sylvain turned to his father.

“Look what you’ve done,” he said.

The Margrave grabbed Sylvain’s arm and urged him into the chair Byleth had left.

“Sylvain,” he said urgently, “is it true? Are His Majesty and the archbishop a couple?”

“Do you doubt it, after what just happened?”

The Margrave sat back in his chair and looked towards the door, after Dimitri.

“You have to talk to His Majesty,” he said. “Tell him to end it.”

Sylvain clenched his fists, in his lap, where his father couldn’t see.

“Why would I do that?” he asked.

The Margrave eyed Sylvain.

“For the good of Faerghus.”

A gentle hand rested on Sylvain’s shoulder. He glanced up to see Ingrid there, frowning at her new father-in-law.

“What do you mean?” she said.

The Margrave crossed his arms.

“I do not wish to deprive the king of his happiness,” he said. “And were he anyone but who he is, I would celebrate him finding a person he loves. But our country needs a secure royal line. Dimitri must marry a woman. A woman can give him children, heirs bearing the Blaiddyd Crest.”

“Not everything is about Crests,” Sylvain spat.

The Margrave glanced up at Ingrid, before looking directly at Sylvain. Sylvain hated the way his heart cowered, his resolve melting like the snow, under that steel gaze.

“You know the truth,” the Margrave said. “The king can love whomever he wishes, but he must marry a woman. In the long run, it would be better for him to give Byleth up.”

Sylvain stood and took Ingrid’s hand.

“Don’t pretend you care about Dimitri,” he said. “If he was anyone but who he is, you wouldn’t spare him a second thought. His marriage will not be a weapon in your twisted power games.”

 _And neither will mine_. Sylvain did not know if his father understood. If his father was capable of understanding. It didn’t matter, in the end. His marriage was one of love.

One of love, Sylvain thinks, wandering towards the ballroom. He hopes that after the party ended, Dimitri spoke to Byleth. He wants his friends to have what he does. They all fought so hard for so long. They deserve happiness. Dimitri deserves to be with Byleth, as much as Felix deserves to be with Annette (if he ever admits that he wants her).

Everything considered, it is wrong that Sylvain emerged the fortunate one. He was always the least likely to marry. Relationships are hard for him. It is easier, and more fun, to flirt. To maintain his immaturity and refuse to take anything seriously, including his position as the future Margrave.

Ingrid is the only person who makes him want to try. Sometimes he looks into the deepest parts of his soul and she is all he finds. If she ever leaves him, there will be nothing left.

But that is okay, because Sylvain knows Ingrid. He knows her well enough to be certain that if she ever leaves him, it won’t be for the reasons he has heard before. Ingrid’s reasons will be real and considered. His fear of fatherhood. His refusal to accept the Margrave’s flaws. His impatience with Dimitri’s inability to think clearly.

When Ingrid leaves him, she will sit Sylvain down and explain. He will listen in silence. He won’t look at her, because if he does, he will break, just like Byleth, just like Dimitri. The fortress he constructed around his true self as a child will crumble to dust, like Merceus did under the javelins of light, and he will weep.

There are servants working in the second floor ballroom as well. Some are at the top of ladders, pulling down the wreaths and flowers decorating the crown of the wall. Others hold brooms, or carry buckets and washcloths. Removing all traces of the celebration, making it as though it had never happened.

But the memory remains. Ingrid in his arms, her hand on his shoulder. Her smile as they spun around the room in their first dance as husband and wife. For those few minutes, she was not self-conscious, even though the people were there, watching her every move. Similarly, for him, there was only her.

That dance is the first time Sylvain remembers feeling truly happy in this place.

He pauses by the window and looks out. The ballroom, like the family wing above, faces east, and Sylvain can see the mountains. Beyond them, as he knows too well, is Sreng. When will he have to return? It probably won’t be long until they mount another campaign. This moment is truly only that—a brief respite from the cruel reality of his life.

And Sylvain suddenly sees her. Ingrid is standing outside on the balcony, wearing the pale blue coat with the fur collar and cuffs that the Margrave gifted her upon her arrival in Gautier. Her hair, grown since the end of the war to reach below her shoulders, drifts gently in the breeze. She, like him, is looking towards the mountains.

Ingrid glances over her shoulder when Sylvain opens the door leading from the ballroom onto the balcony. She smiles. And goddess help him, it is blinding. He wraps his arms around her waist from behind, rests his chin on her shoulder. Together, they look at the mountains.

“I missed you,” Sylvain says.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Ingrid replies. “You haven’t rested since I arrived.”

“Everything had to be perfect.”

“It already was.”

Ingrid puts her hands over the top of Sylvain’s, where they meet against her stomach.

“I was admiring the view,” she says. “It is strange how little I know it. You always came to Galatea to visit, but I rarely came here.”

Sylvain points towards the valley directly ahead of them.

“That’s Ruin Pass,” he explains. “Legend says that when Gautier built the castle, he was annoyed that the mountains blocked his view of the dawn. So he carved through them with the Lance of Ruin, so he could watch the sun rise from this balcony.”

Ingrid giggles.

“What a ridiculous story,” she says.

Sylvain grins.

“I know. I suspect one of former Margraves was annoyed by the legends about the Sword of the Creator and wanted to prove that Gautier was as good as Nemesis. It would be very like my family.”

He shrugs, as much of an excuse he can make for his appalling ancestors.

“Anyway, it’s a story that’s been passed down through the generations,” he says.

“Then I suppose I’ll tell it to our children.”

Sylvain’s heart skips.

“If you wish,” he says.

They stand there for a moment, listening to the world. Sylvain distinguishes birdsongs and the clash of swords from the training grounds. A dissonant combination that he loathes.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, drawing out the word, as though she is unsure.

“What is it?” Sylvain asks.

“Are these also the mountains where Miklan left you, that winter?”

A chill runs up Sylvain’s spine. He still feels the biting cold, right to the depths of his being, when he thinks about that night. The healer said it was only by the grace of the goddess that he hadn’t lost a limb to frostbite.

“Yes.”

Ingrid turns. She wraps her arms around him, squeezing tight, and rests her head against his chest.

“You must hate it here,” she whispers.

Sylvain swallows. How did she know?

Ingrid tilts her chin upwards so she can look into his eyes.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” she asks. “We can saddle the horses and ride. Dimitri won’t mind. He told me he feels terrible for forcing this gathering on us.”

Sylvain hooks Ingrid’s hair behind her ear. Imagine, his Ingrid suggesting they abandon the king in his time of need.

“My father requires my help,” Sylvain says. “And Dimitri was right about one thing—building a comradery between the nobles is essential to remaking Fódlan. We should stay and be a part of it.”

Ingrid raises herself on her toes and kisses Sylvain. Her lips are gentle, soft against his, an expression of pure love. It is a tonic, a drug, and Sylvain is addicted.

“When spring comes,” Ingrid says, “we’ll ride south-east. Through Fraldarius, to the ocean. We’ll stay in a cottage by the sea and pretend we aren’t who we are. Just the two of us.”

“We just celebrated the Rebirth,” he replies. “Spring’s nearly a year away.”

“A bit less.”

Sylvain chuckles. “I’d never ask you to abandon your duty, Ingrid.”

“I have more than one of those now. There is my duty to His Majesty and Faerghus, but also my duty to you. My husband.”

He shakes his head. “You have no duty to me.”

“I do,” Ingrid said. “Yesterday I promised to love and care for you. And I will, Sylvain. You deserve it as much as anybody else. Even more, in my eyes.”

This time, Sylvain kisses her. He is not as gentle as her, he never has been, nor as kind or faithful. But he wants her—perhaps he always has, he just never knew it—and he will give her all of him, until his very last breath. And he pours that into the kiss, along with everything else he wishes he could say aloud, all his desires and emotions and confusion.

When Sylvain draws back, he is breathless. But so is Ingrid, and that makes him feel like _he_ could take the Lance of Ruin in hand and cut a pass through the mountain range. All because she wants him too.

“This marriage of ours,” he says, stroking her back, “it’s not going to be easy. My father, and Faerghus…the Sreng…there are things that will make our lives hard.”

Ingrid reaches behind her back and takes his hands in hers. She lifts them up, lacing their fingers together. Her wedding ring catches between his fingers, cool against his skin.

“Have you ever known me to chose the easy route?” she says. “Besides, there’s only one reason I married you. One unchanging reason. And that’s love.”

Sylvain smirks. “I know you weren’t after my Crest,” he says. “But surely the money played a part in all this. I know the pressure on you, to save Galatea.”

Ingrid frowns. She lets go of Sylvain’s hand and cups his face.

“I would have married you if you have been no-one, disowned by your family and thrown out to fend for yourself, without a single piece of gold to your name,” she whispers. “Galatea is important to me, but there are ways other than dowries to restore its fortune. There is only one you.”

And Sylvain believes her, because he knows her, he trusts her. She never once lied to him, even when he was his absolute worst. She is the best of women and the best of him, and she chooses to stand beside him.

“Thank you,” Sylvain says. That is all he can manage to express how he feels. He hopes she understands.

Ingrid smiles. She steps to his side, turning to the face the morning, and slips her arm around his waist.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she says.

Sylvain lifts his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Or; some lengthy Sylvain introspection.
> 
> This ended up so much more complicated and longer than I expected, hence its 24-hour delay, putting me utterly out of sync for Sylvgrid Week. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing.
> 
> Note 13/09/20: I previously noted that I wanted to write about Byleth/Dimitri as they appear in this fic. That story is in process and being posted [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953748/chapters/63088189).


End file.
